


To Earn the Right

by radishleaf



Series: The Fool, Reversed - Ezra Oneshots [8]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Banter, Hand Jobs, Light BDSM, M/M, Making Out, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Play, Pre-Canon, Spoilers, Swordfighting, Teasing, by light i mean really light, so i can't promise anything great ahaha, the divergence is very very slight and only affects the canon of my apprentice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-20 01:48:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20219773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radishleaf/pseuds/radishleaf
Summary: Montag was a mercenary always searching for a challenge, but when that happened to be admitting his real name, he felt Ezra had to earn the right.





	To Earn the Right

**Author's Note:**

> i can't help but admit how much i love writing for these two. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> as mentioned in the tags, montag/young lucio retains his role as a mercenary, but my apprentice is outfitted into the role of a boss of a group of thieves. doesn't really affect anything plot-wise since this is pwp, but i needed some kind of reason, aha. unlike the other lucio/ezra oneshots, this one is completely on its own, so there's no connection.
> 
> as always, kindly disregard any grammatical errors, punctuation mistakes, and the like. i tried to be thorough. enjooooy.

The rowdy throng surrounding the fight was drawn to silence as Lorenz was downed in one fell swoop; Montag’s sword cutting a clean line from shoulder to hip. The broad-shouldered, portly man collapsed to the ground in a bloody heap, but was quickly removed by two men hustling forward and dragging him away. Montag turned to the lot, grinning cockily as he wiped a bit of blood from his chin. After felling four challengers, he was beginning to feel a bit winded, but the urge to fight welled up within him all the same.

Wandering groups of thieves and bandits weren’t unheard of in the south; they were as common as the snows, but simple mentions of the Scourge of the South had them turning tail and running. That wasn’t the case now that he was a mercenary, having fled all the awfulness of his tribe and his mother, Morga. His wandering north near the border thinned random ambushes—it was usually his lot doing the ambushing—so to chance upon a group of misfits bonding over thievery drew up some nostalgia.

Namely, a desire to eke out a challenge and show them how great he was. However, Montag’s aims were shifted when he was convinced of a tourney; instead of bloodshed, he was to be challenged, and the victor would have the bragging rights of one-upping Montag Morgasson, or as he was beginning to be called, Lucio. As the Luminaries (an unfitting name for a group of thieves, Montag thought) cheered on his new alias, he felt his pride swell, and he puffed out his chest.

“So!” he called over the cries, hooking his bloodied sword over his shoulder. “Who’s next? I need someone good, someone who can give me a challenge!”

At once, everyone folded in on themselves and drew back at the instigation. Considering he just set an example with four others, Montag wasn’t surprised no one wanted to take him on, but it still frustrated him to not get what he wanted. He frowned and gave an undignified sniff. 

“C’mon, you crop of cowards! Can’t you see I’m giving you a chance to fight _me?_ Are you going to take it or not?” His only reply was silence, bubbling up anger. “Fine then! I’ll pick one of you assholes myself!”

He had caught a whiff of it before, but when Montag breathed deep to sigh, it was more palpable now: A familiar, fragrant smell that he was well-acquainted with. He continued to sniff the air, the throng about him parting as he marched through, until he chanced upon the source. Propped against a nearby tree was a man who held himself with a certain repose; his appearance kempt from his wan head of hair to his glasses to his stately dress. He certainly looked out of place among the battered ragtag group surrounding him, immediately piquing Montag’s interest.

“You,” he said, pointing his sword challengingly at the man. “C’mon, let’s fight.”

The man looked at him, nonplussed. It was as if Montag asked him about the weather, not clearly threatening him. He thought he would have to tease the matter, but when the man pushed himself from the tree, and breezed passed him to the clearing before them, he was glad he so readily gave in. Montag turned on his heel and hustled after the man, a smile curved on his face at the wide eyes drawn in his passing. He clearly made the right choice, much to his delight.

“You must be desperate for some sort of entertainment,” the man commented, shedding his jacket and handing it off to a nearby onlooker, “to want to fight someone clearly uninterested.”

“I don’t care for interest or not,” Montag said. “I’m here for a challenge, so I challenged _you_.”

“Oh? And what about me speaks of a challenge? I’m, mm, unencumbered by muscle, mass, and all of the makings of a man seeking a fight.” He hooked a thumb at the throng. “Wouldn’t someone else suit your fancy?”

Montag shook his head. “That cesspool of the great unwashed doesn’t compare to you. I’m sure of that.”

“Yet you give no reason...”

Montag sniffed again. “Soap,” he said.

The man drew up a quizzical brow. “Soap? How exactly does that explain anything?”

“You’re the only one clean—the only one who obviously doesn’t want to get their hands dirty through a fight. Not that I can blame you.” Montag grinned, eying him suggestively. “I wouldn’t want to ruin such a spectacular image either. It would be unbecoming. But that can only mean one thing: You’re well-respected enough to be allowed some liberties—such as a bath—because you’re either highly ranked in this group or their leader. You look like you come from money, so I’m guessing the latter.”

The man gave a small laugh. “I’m impressed,” he said. “You actually have some brain to go with that brawn if you conceived of that from the smell of soap.”

Montag harrumphed. “I’m insulted you even _took_ me for stupid.”

“You gave me no choice.” The man rolled up his sleeves. “You challenged me to a fight, after all.”

Montag hooted triumphantly. “I _knew_ it!” he cried. “I knew you were going to be someone worthy of me! What’s your name? I’ve got to know.”

“Ezra Locke,” the man said, drawing his sword. It caught the midevening light as he studied the blade before tapping the tip near his heel. “Leader of the Luminaries, as you’ve predicted.”

Montag beamed brightly, despite his insides twisting from both mirth and misery. The man’s stance was grounded, meaning he knew his way around a sword, and the weapon itself looked to be of a fine craftmanship unlike his rusted stick on a hilt. Combined with the pain of settling bruises and scrapes, Montag’s initial expectations of victory were dissipating, but he still didn’t want to conceive defeat. Sure, he was an idiot and a fool, but he wasn’t a miser. When he wanted something, he’d do all he could to obtain it.

“As pleased as I am to put a name to that lovely face of yours,” he said, “we aren’t getting anywhere with small talk. C’mon, I want a fight! Let’s go!”

“Must you make haste?” Ezra said as he began to round him, marking his path in the dirt with his sword. Montag matched his steps the opposite way. “You haven’t even introduced yourself.”

Montag cocked his chin toward the throng. “You heard my name already—it’s Lucio. That lot has been chanting it all this time.”

“Now I’m offended you’ve taken _me_ for stupid.” Montag couldn’t help barking out a laugh at Ezra’s reply. “I want your _real_ name, Lucio—not that flimsy alias you have my people calling you.”

Montag grinned. “You have to earn that right. If you can defeat me, that is.”

Ezra chuckled. “I expected as much,” he said, stopping. “Then so be it.” He beckoned at Montag. “Come at me.”

“Get him, Ezra!” shouted his group over his shoulder. “No mercy! Show him why you’re our boss! You can do it!”

Montag didn’t need to be told twice, the awaited invitation was all he needed. Steeling his resolve and his grip on his sword, he launched from where he stood, clearing the distance between himself and Ezra with a bounding dash. Ezra made not a move to retaliate, drawing a glint to Montag’s eye. He _knew_ the man was all talk; he was as slow as a snail through molasses—there was no way he would defend himself in time. As unfortunate it was to down someone so attractive so easily, Montag couldn’t deny there was some delight in knocking Ezra down a peg. His holier-than-thou attitude was getting a tad grating.

Montag’s grin slipped from his face when Ezra brought his sword up and stabbed it into the dirt, completing the circle he’d made. His stomach sank just as his body did; the ground suddenly giving out beneath Montag’s feet as a pit formed out of nowhere. He fell the entire length before unceremoniously impacting hard on the solid earth at the bottom. Ezra peered over the edge before sheathing his sword.

“Well, that takes care of that,” he said, before looking over his shoulder. “Hemmick. Bates. Mind lending me a hand?”

The two men joined Ezra at his side, glancing down to study the body of Montag in the pit. “I never knew you could do that, boss,” Hemmick said. “What a drop…”

“Of _course,_ he can, stupid,” Bates said, elbowing him in his side. “Everyone knows boss is one of those magicians.”

“Yea, but he’s only ever used his magic to heal—not hurt.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures. Duh.”

“Yea, but—”

“He’s right, Hemmick,” Ezra cut in. “I didn’t want to, but he was growing to be an annoyance. I’m going to be preoccupied all day tomorrow healing those he downed. It was best to stop him now.”

“Yea, especially since he couldn’t shut up,” Bates said.

Ezra chuckled. “That, too.”

Hemmick ducked his head. “He ain’t, y’know…” He eyed Ezra wearily. “You didn’t kill him, right, boss?”

Ezra shook his head. “No. The pit’s only eight or so feet deep. Not enough to kill, but enough to knock him unconscious, at most. He should be fine. Hemmick, could you fish him out of there? Clean him up some and then bring him to my tent. Tied up, of course. I would like to have a word with him. And Bates”—he turned to the man—“have a few fill this hole. Don’t want anyone else falling in.”

The two men exchanged confused glances, but nodded their heads at Ezra. “You got it, boss,” Bates said, saluting him with the wrong hand, before whipping around to the throng to bark orders. “You heard the man! Rook, Grey! Go get some shovels! Lacie, Maya! Find some soft dirt! Let’s go!”

Content for the time being, Ezra retired to his tent pitched and hidden in the denser part of the forest. Unlike the shoddily thrown together shelters dotting the camp, his was large and properly furnished with all manner of effects to make for comfortable living. There was even a rug spread out to prevent him from stepping on cold ground.

After feeding a fire to warm the interior, Ezra moved a chair and a small side table near one of the tent’s supports just as Hemmick entered with Montag. Hemmick dragged his body over to the beam when Ezra indicated it, then slumped him against it as he wound a rope about his hands.

Montag appeared slovenly; his face and chest still caked with dirt despite Hemmick’s cursory cleaning. His head lolled against the beam as he heaved breathes. While the fall surely knocked the wind from him, his previous fights had tired him out. Ezra felt he overdid it a bit; he only wanted to end their fight quickly and easily, after all.

“Is that all, boss?” Hemmick asked.

“Mhm,” Ezra said, nodding to him. “You can go.”

After Hemmick dismissed himself, Ezra dropped into the chair, and drew a long drink from a glass of wine as he studied Montag. He’d heard rumor of a bloodthirsty mercenary making his way up north from the cold lands, but never did he think he’d make contact with him—let alone be challenged to a duel. Ezra couldn’t deny he admired the man’s bravado; only a fool would challenge the leader of the Luminaries, even if their reputation was only known along the border.

“What an ego you must have,” Ezra commented to the air, “Lucio.”

As if drawn to consciousness come the mention of his name, Montag shifted before giving a pained wince. He deigned to open his eyes, but he pushed himself to, if only to collect his bearings.

“W-where the hell… am I...?”

“Contained, for now,” Ezra said.

“W-what?” Montag squeezed dirt from his eyes before opening them, carefully studying the rug beneath him. “No, I mean, _where_…?”

“In my tent. Don’t tell me that fall knocked all sense out of you.”

“N-no, no, it didn’t—wait.” Montag’s eyes snapped up, before he winced again from the sudden movement. “Wait, wait, you’re Ezra. Right, and I challenged you to a fight, and then I fell, and—_you!_ You used an underhanded trick to win!”

Ezra smiled. “Underhanded it may be, you’re still admitting I won.”

“N-no! It was an unfair fight, and I swear to—to—_grah!_” Montag struggled against his bindings when he found the strength to launch himself at Ezra. The man rose his brows at the blond, though he appeared unperturbed. He was only surprised by Montag’s swift recovery. “The hell am I tied up for? Let me go!”

“Precaution,” Ezra said, taking a sip of his wine. “To prevent you from wanting to put a sword in my throat—as appears to be the case.”

Montag harrumphed when he realized his struggles would be futile. “You’re damn right I want to put a sword in your throat,” he said, before a pearly smile spread on his face. “But one made of metal isn’t what I had in mind.”

Ezra hummed. “Flirting even at a time like this?”

“Can’t help it. You’re a sight for these sore eyes, even if you’re the cause of the pain.”

“My apologies. I admit I overdid it with that spell.”

Montag snorted. “Spare me your humbleness. Had I known you were a magician, I never would’ve challenged you. You’re an unfair lot.”

“Oh? You’ve met others?”

“No, but if they’re anything like _you_, then I’m well-acquainted.”

Ezra gave an amused chuckle. “What an attitude you have,” he commented, “especially for the position you’re in.”

Montag had prepared a snappy retort, but found himself silenced when the tip of Ezra’s shoe met his chin, tipping it up. The gesture was both insulting and intimidating, lighting a fire in the blond’s belly he hadn’t felt in quite a long time. He could tell the feeling was mutual by the way Ezra’s eyes glinted behind his glasses.

“What… the hell did you really bring me here for?” Montag asked as a knowing smile crept on his lips. “There’s an ulterior motive behind whatever _this_ is.”

“I had intentions of simply talking, but it seems… those plans have changed,” Ezra said. “You’ve piqued my interest. A very difficult feat to achieve.”

“Did I now?” Montag shifted away when Ezra crossed his legs the other way. “Was it my looks? I agree, I’m _quite_ handsome.”

“You look dashing in red, yes, but that’s not the reason.”

“Then was it my swordsmanship? My strength? My outspoken personality? I’ve got to know!”

Ezra shook his head at each of those. “No, it was but one thing.”

“Then tell me!”

“Your name. Precisely, the name you wished to be called.”

“Lucio?”

“Mhm.”

Montag furrowed his brow. “Why would that pique your interest? It’s just a name.”

“Yes, but one you’re adamant to be referred to by.” Ezra sipped his wine. “Which means you hold some, mm, reservations toward whatever your real name is. That’s what piqued my interest.”

Lucio squirmed upon being read so succinctly. Ezra had certainly picked out his weakness, since his real name would clearly connect him to the Scourge of the South, but he wasn’t going to readily tell the man. It would blow the entire reputation he carved out for himself along the border.

“I won’t say,” Montag said, glancing away.

“Now you’re just being stubborn.”

“Remember what I said? You have to _earn_ that right.”

“Hadn’t I already? I won your challenge, after all.”

“That’s because you had an unfair advantage! So no, I’m not telling you shit!”

Montag was proving to be difficult, just as Ezra had ascertained he would be. He had no choice but to convince him. Sighing as he leaned forward, Ezra cupped Montag’s cheek, thumbing a small cut below his eye. The sting was slight, but paled in comparison to the flaring burn it incited in Montag’s belly. To have initial contact with the thing he’d been making eyes all this time was painfully delightful.

“Then I’m going to have to convince you, I take it?” Ezra asked, tone dropping an octave. “Is something like this what you want?”

“It’s… a step in the right direction,” Montag said, tipping his head up, “but you know I want more.”

Montag craned his neck to meet the lips that met his. The kiss was slight, with more give than take, but pleased him all the same. This paled in comparison, however, to the fingers that traced the curvature of his neck before working their way down his chest. Ezra’s hand was callused, dashing aside the expectation he’d lived an easy life, but the warmth of it was enough to double Montag’s heartbeat into an erratic flutter.

Montag knew he was weak to lust, to the touch of another. It weakened his defenses considerably, and Ezra was edging him to a dangerous line as he continued to kiss him with an unfound tenderness. The blond briefly wondered if he kissed others with such feeling, but the thought dissipated into nothingness in the next instance as he concentrated solely on the soft pliancy of lips against lips.

When Ezra drew back, Montag sucked in a sharp breath from the bite of the ropes about his hands. It was only then he realized he’d been straining against them as if desperate for more bodily contact or release. The beam held steadfastly, however, denying him both.

“H-hey,” he said dryly. “Take these ropes off.”

“Why should I?” Ezra asked. There was no warning to his words, only light teasing. “Didn’t you say you’d put a sword in my throat?”

“C’mon—”

Ezra tut-tutted him, silencing his arguments with another brief kiss, only to pull back and say against Montag’s lips, “Now, now. I have to put my own safety first.”

Montag frowned. “That’s beside the point. It’s just going to make things difficult.”

“Oh? For what?”

“D-don’t play coy. You know _exactly_ what I mean.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Ezra said as he pried away the sash and belts about Montag’s middle and dropped them aside. He continued to trace fingers across the revealed expanse of the blond’s lower abdomen, making him squirm against his restraints. “Your intentions are a mystery, just like your name.”

“E-Ezra—”

“Oh, are you saying that’s your name now? How you lie, Lucio…”

Ezra couldn’t deny he was having fun. He had lowered himself from the chair and before Montag to continue teasing him, running a finger under the waistband of his trousers, much to his chagrin. The fight within the blond was palpable; from the raging desire to grab Ezra and push him back to the floor to the satisfaction of being toyed with like putty in his hands. It was the control—and lack thereof—that was driving Montag’s mixed feelings, not that he would admit it.

“Are you that desperate?” Ezra inquired when Montag unconsciously bucked his hips. “That eager? Or are you a virgin? It’s as if you have never been touched before.”

“D-don’t insult me,” Montag spat at Ezra’s cheeky smile. “It’s desperation. Y-you’re going too slow, drawing things out. I _hate_ that. L-let me have you already, damn it.”

“Mm, my apologies. You’re too handsome to be a virgin.” The flush that spread across Montag’s face was at odds with the pleased but embarrassed twist of his lips. It almost had Ezra laughing; his ego was really too big. “However, why the rush? Isn’t it better to take your time?”

“Not for… me.” Montag released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding when Ezra popped the button of his trousers. “I’m an impatient man.”

“Are you now? And here I thought otherwise.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ezra gave him a hooded look as he leaned it. “You appear more like someone who is always looking to run away from something,” he said. “Hence your constant haste.”

“I’m—”

Montag was quieted by another kiss, albeit a crushing one that caught his moan when Ezra brushed fingers over his erection. It was beginning to form somewhere during the touch of Ezra’s fingers to his chest, but hardened considerably come direct contact. When the magician wrapped fingers about the base of his cock and gave it an experimental pump, Montag broke their kiss to sag back against the support beam, groaning. His being seemed to now be dangling precariously from a thread of desire that Ezra was more than willing to entertain—if only to draw more reaction out of him.

Montag muttered a curse when a pearl of cum leak from the tip of his cock, this dissolving into a huffy grunt when Ezra thumbed the tip. Desperation grew in him with each agonizing second, until Montag keened when orgasm built in his lower belly, only to be denied when Ezra released him. He struggled against the support beam as he tried to collect his scattered bearings; attention caught when Ezra began undressing himself.

It proved a delightful distraction away from his throbbing cock. Montag knew Ezra hadn’t purposely put on a show for him, but the slow shedding of clothing to reveal skin was a treat for the eyes. Ezra hadn’t given him the pleasure of all of his body—he still wore his button down, cuffs rolled to the elbow—but it was wanton in its own right, dropped right into his lap when Ezra ambled on.

“You’re too excited for this, Lucio.” When Ezra’s cock brushed against Montag’s, the blond gave a hiss. “You really _do _lack patience.”

Montag panted as dark eyes settled on him. “When I’m denied even the ability touch, you can’t blame me.”

“Mm, true. I can’t fault you for that. Especially when it leaves me at a disadvantage.” Ezra produced an olive-colored phial and held it up before Montag. “I guess I have to do this myself.”

Montag harrumphed. “How unfair.”

“You win some, you lose some.”

“Even through underhanded tricks?”

Ezra dipped his head, pouring a generous amount of oil onto his fingers before slipping them back to the cleft of his rear. “Even through underhanded tricks,” he repeated suggestively, catching a moan via a kiss to Montag when he prodded a finger in.

It was agony watching him. Montag thought he’d find it entertaining for Ezra to put on another show for him, but it backfired considerably when he was forced to watch what he couldn’t have. Ezra tipped his head back as he worked fingers in himself; his other hand wrapped about Montag’s neck for support as he ground at a particular spot. The blond exchanged glances between the magician’s contorting face and his loins, unsure which one offered a better viewing pleasure.

“Nice view,” Montag commented offhandedly. His silver eyes remained pinned on the latter, deciding that was the better take. 

“Mm, I bet,” Ezra said with a chuckle. “You’re watching me so intensely.”

“Can’t help it with how one-sided this feels.”

“Oh?” Ezra gave him a pert smile. “Are you feeling left out?”

“Mhm. It’s unfair that only you are having all of the fun.”

“You had your fun,” Ezra said, brushing his forehead against Montag’s when he gave a low moan. “_Mn,_ four of my wounded are evidence of that.”

“_This _and sword fighting are incomparable,” Montag said, shifting under Ezra’s weight.

“But both offer pleasure, yes?”

“Yes, but different kinds. I know the burn of a fight keenly, but right now, I want to know the inside of _you_. Hurry up, put me in.”

“What an incorrigible man you are,” Ezra as he rose to shift Montag’s cock into place after coating it in oil. “Part of me is going to regret this.”

Montag’s words caught on his tongue when the head of his cock slipped in. There was some expected give, but it was quickly overcome by Ezra’s insistence. From there came the agonizing lowering of Ezra onto Montag’s cock as he negotiated the length against the give and his own resistance to the pleasure-pain. Ezra was clamped onto him like a vice; from his rear about his cock to his arm about his neck. Montag felt like that described everything regarding their sudden entanglement; something wound tight as if to control, but coming to no avail when it was relinquished.

Just as Ezra’s interest was piqued, so was Montag’s. He knew next to nothing when it came to Ezra, but a single bout of sex explained more than words ever could. He felt like he knew Ezra thoroughly even when it was only skin-deep. It was strange of him to meditate on a matter when he was in the midst of sex, but he finally found the patience for it, it only because Ezra was still adjusting.

Ezra swallowed thickly as he found a comfortable position in Montag’s lap. “Mmph, L-Lucio, you’re… mm… you’re so hard.”

Montag nosed the curve of his jaw. “Can you blame me?” he muttered. “You had me waiting long enough.”

“Then _move_,” Ezra said, though more commanded of him. His voice was thick with desire. “You finally have what you want now, don’t you?”

Montag’s first thrust drew a relieved moan out of both of them. He found a rhythm soon after; bucking his hips up as Ezra met him halfway, grinding down. It was a deep, slow, and strangely intimate form of sex unlike Montag ever experienced. But with the way the magician clung to him, egging him on and chanting his name like a mantra, he thought Ezra wouldn’t have it any other way.

Montag has his face pressed into the hollow between Ezra’s neck and shoulder as release built it him, stifling a moan by catching the taut muscle of his throat between teeth. Though he hadn’t the honor of putting a sword in his throat, at least he brought the sting of pain in another way. The orgasm that came to him wracked Montag’s entire body as he came in Ezra. In tandem, as Ezra worked himself, he came in a trembling jolt that subsumed that pain to numbness.

With both their bodies slicked with sweat, holding onto Montag proved difficult, but Ezra refused to let go as they both settled into a post-coital afterglow. Montag’s cock slipped from Ezra when he shifted, drawing a small huff from him. Finding words felt impossible in the heat of the moment, so Montag filled the silence by kissing Ezra, which he obliged by carding fingers through his hair.

When he pulled back, conscious thought finally slipping back to him, Montag said against Ezra’s lips, “Montag Morgasson.”

Ezra blinked at him. “What…?”

“My name.” He swallowed thickly upon admitting it. “That’s my name—Montag Morgasson. You’ve won the right to know.”

The corner of Ezra’s lip pulled up. “That’s all it took to convince you?” he said. “Sex? Now that I know that, I wonder what else I can ask of you.”

“Don’t push your luck,” Montag said with a huff. “This was a one-time deal.”

“I highly doubt that,” Ezra teased. “I think you liked this too much to only let it happen _once_. And by extension, me.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Montag said as he kissed the depression marks left by his teeth on the magician’s neck. It drew a pleased hum out of him. “If it makes the day go by, sure.”

“Mm, what a stubborn man you are,” Ezra returned. “I’m definitely going to have to knock you down a peg—again.”


End file.
